by Ron Ripley
Smiling to himself, Herman read on.
Page after page passed. He finished his food and his drinks. Hours passed, and his cellphone vibrated several times, interruptions from his parents. He had lied effectively, keeping it simple and to the point; “In the library. Reading.” It was, in essence, a truthful statement. He was in a library. He certainly was reading. And he didn’t feel bad about the lie. He hated his parents.
Herman shook away the emotion, stood up and stretched. He looked at the clock on the desk and saw it was twelve in the afternoon.
A chill crept into the room, raised the hairs on the back of his neck and made Herman wish he had brought a sweatshirt with him. He felt physically uncomfortable, as though someone had turned him upside down and shook him for a moment. A headache blossomed behind his eyes and he shut them tight. The blood throbbed in his temples, and he tried to ignore the pain. He heard the rustle of pages. Somehow, a breeze had moved through the room. Herman opened his eyes and looked up at the vent in the ceiling. The air conditioning, set to keep the books in a gentle atmosphere, wasn’t blowing hard enough to shift the heavyweight paper of Weiss’ book.
Herman looked around the room and stopped suddenly. Slowly, he turned his attention back to the clock as his headache lessened and faded away. Mrs. Alcott’s clock was small and in a red case. The screen was silver, the numbers black. And it was one-fifteen. No longer twelve. Confusion pushed through Herman.
I couldn’t have been standing up for an hour, he told himself. No way.
He picked up his phone and looked at the time. One-sixteen. Herman sat down at the desk and noticed the book was opened to a new page. An entirely new chapter.
“People Will Listen.”
Chapter 8: A History Lesson
“Dave,” Mitchell said, holding up a hand. “This is absolute bull. You know that, right?”
Dave poured himself a fresh shot of Blue Label, looked at Mitchell, and shook his head. “The supernatural?”
“Ghosts, vengeful spirits,” Mitchell said. “Anything like it. It’s all crap.” He was getting angry.
“Why?” Dave asked.
“Because it is,” Mitchell snapped. “Listen. There’s no proof. None. Not a single shred of evidence.”
“What about Larry and Bruce’s white hair?” Dave questioned.
“Could have been anything,” Mitchell said harshly. “Who knows what chemicals leaked out of the ambrotype? Who knows how long it was in there?”
“And Marilyn?” Dave said.
Mitchell bristled at the question. “I don’t know what the hell happened to her. But you can’t tell me the spirit of the Nathaniel Weiss came back and killed her.”
“I’m not,” Dave said, drinking the liquor. “I’m telling you he told her to kill herself.”
“The hell he did,” Mitchell spat.
Dave waited a moment to see if Mitchell would continue. When he didn’t, Dave said, “Mitchell, I read the man’s book. He had entire sections which focused only on the ability to persuade people. To talk someone into doing something they would never do. He even spoke about how he knew of individuals who had been strong enough to bind their spirits to physical items. I wish the book had been there.”
“It wouldn’t have changed my mind,” Mitchell said angrily. “I don’t care if he wrote the nineteenth century’s equivalent to How to Win Friends and Influence People. I don’t care!”
He stabbed a finger angrily at Dave. “I’m telling you, without a doubt, that there are no such things as ghosts.”
Dave finished his drink and put the cup on his desk. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because God doesn’t let people roam around after they die,” Mitchell said. “They go to Heaven, or they go to Hell. One of two options. There is no third.”
“What about all of the reported sightings, Mitchell?” Dave asked, a heated note entering his voice. “What about mediums?”
“Hallucinations and charlatans,” Mitchell replied. “God, you sound as bad as my cousin.”
“Does he believe in ghosts?” Dave asked.
“Worse,” Mitchell said. “The last time we spoke, he told me he was seeing the dead. I told him to get his heart medication checked.”
“He actually sees the dead?” Dave said, straightening up in his chair. “Where does he live?”
“Brian,” Mitchell said, “lives up in New Hampshire.”
“Ask him to come down,” Dave said. “Have him take a look around. Maybe he’ll see something.”
Mitchell stood up. “Dave, the last thing I’m going to do is call up Brian and ask him to come down here and search for something I don’t believe in. Listen, I’m going out. Do me a favor and leave your door unlocked if you go home before I get back.”
“Sure,” Dave said with a sigh.
Mitchell left the room and closed the door angrily behind him.
Don’t be mad at Dave because Marilyn’s dead, Mitchell scolded himself. He means well. One of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard him say, but he means well.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets as he left the building. His wristwatch beeped twice, letting him know it was two, and he wondered why he didn’t go home.
Soon, he told himself. Soon.
A glance over at the administration building showed the Medical Examiner’s white Econoline van parked near the front. They would be moving Marilyn out of his office soon.
Sadness, suddenly, weighed down on him, and Mitchell made his way to a granite bench. It was beneath one of the cherry trees; both the tree and the bench were a gift from the class of ninety-nine. Mitchell sat down in the shade of the fruit tree and closed his eyes. He tried not to think about the smell of Marilyn’s urine, or the sound of it striking the papers on his desk.
But he failed. Mitchell wept silently in the afternoon’s warmth.
Chapter 9: A Disagreement
Steve Palmer and Chris Selig had been working on the same truck for Hanson’s Plumbing for three years and two months. Sixteen days, too.
Steve couldn’t stand Chris. Hated the kid. Chris had gotten his master’s license two years earlier than Steve, and the guy always talked about it. All Steve wanted was to get his own truck. Ever since Steve had set a Church bathroom on fire with a misplaced blowtorch, though, Hanson hadn’t let him out alone. Not once.
The old man made sure Chris baby-sat him every damned job they worked on. Chris made sure everything was done right. Sure, Steve missed a couple of fittings here and there, but it was no big deal. They could have blamed any leaks on bad pipes, or anything else. Clients were stupid. The job was stupid. Nobody else would hire him, and he couldn’t start his own business. The whole Church had burned down, and it had made every paper as far as New Haven. Even New England Cable News had done a story about it.
Steve glanced over at Chris, who was finishing up with the second toilet. The job at the Academy was nasty. Broken porcelain everywhere, all the water. Before the cleanup crews came in, they wanted anything dangerous picked up. Evidently, they had some concerns about diseases.
How many diseases can high school students have? Steve wondered, wrapping his arms around the base of a toilet and shifting it off of the old wax ring.
Something popped in his back, and he let go of the bowl and stumbled back. He grunted as his head struck the countertop and he splashed down in a puddle of water.
Chris straightened up. “You okay, Steve?”
Steve wanted to tell him off, but instead he said, “Yeah.”
He shivered as he stood up and looked around. “Hey, they turn the AC up in here or something?”
Chris looked around. “Don’t know. Maybe?”
Steve watched as Chris stiffened, his eyes becoming dull. Ice formed on the puddles and Steve shook from the sudden cold. His breath came out in long, white tendrils.
Chris nodded as if in reply to some silent question and a malicious smile spread across his face. Steve had never seen such an expression on the man. Even
when he was angry, Chris didn’t look angry. Chris turned to face him. Slowly, while Steve watched, Chris bent down, picked up the pipe wrench. The tool was long, heavy, and orange. A few minutes before, Chris had been disassembling the industrial fittings on the toilets’ water lines. Chris’ smile spread and he took a delicate, almost-carefree step towards Steve. Steve backed away. Chris was between him and the exit. The only other way out was a window, which wasn’t a real option; they were on the third floor.
Chris swung the wrench casually as if getting a feel for the tool’s weight.
“I know what you say about me,” Chris whispered. “I’ve seen the faces you make. And just to let you know Stephen, I don’t like you either.”
The back of Steve’s knees hit the electric radiator set beneath the window.
“Chris,” Steve said, breathing heavily, shaking more from fear than the cold. “Listen, man, it’s okay. I’m sorry, alright?”
“Yeah, it’s alright,” Chris said, smiling. “And I know you’re sorry. You’re sorry. You’re worthless. I’ve seen where you live. I’m surprised you even got your master’s degree. I’m surprised, Stephen, you even have a driver’s license. Good thing you’re sterile, huh?”
“Hey, man,” Steve said, eyes darting from Chris to the doorway. “You feeling okay? Why don’t we go outside? Smoke a butt? Get some air, okay?”
“Yes, I’m feeling fine,” Chris said, his voice becoming low and nearly a purr. “Feeling F-I-N-E, fine.”
With the last word, Chris lunged forward and swung the wrench. The heavy orange tool rushed towards Steve from the side, smashing into his ribs. Terrible pain exploded in his chest as the head of the wrench shattered bone, driving the fragments into his lung.
Steve screamed. A deeply agonized scream which was cut short as Chris struck him repeatedly. Steve raised his arms to try and block the blows, but to no avail. His forearms cracked, fingers crumpled, and Steve pressed himself against the window as Chris continued to hit him.
Faintly, beneath the sound of his own shrieking, Steve heard the glass behind him crack.
Chapter 10: A Strange Bird
Mitchell unceremoniously used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe his eyes and his nose. He refused to look back at the administration building. Over the odd quiet of the school, he could hear the coroner’s van idling.
A loud crack rang out, and Mitchell looked up. Across the quad, he saw lines in the frosted window of the girl’s bathroom on the third floor of the Dartmouth Building.
A heartbeat later, the glass exploded outwards, and a body tumbled out, arms flailing as if the man was trying to fly. The world slowed down as Mitchell, horrified, watched the man fall. It was as though someone was advancing a movie frame by frame. Mitchell could see terror on the man’s face as he fell. He wore dark blue pants, black boots, and a light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The man, Mitchell noticed, was balding and pudgy.
A second man stood in the window and looked down, smiling. He wore an identical uniform to the falling man, and in his hands he held a large, orange pipe wrench. He noticed Mitchell and waved happily.
Without knowing why, Mitchell raised his hand and returned the wave. Then the world sped up to its normal speed. The falling man reached the earth with a dull, sickening thud. His screams punctured the stillness of the Academy. Mitchell stood up, and as he did so, the man with the wrench jumped out of the window. He landed heavily on the fallen man, whose screams were abruptly cut off.
Mitchell ran towards them. Suddenly a pair of young police officers raced past him, reaching the pair of men as the wrench-wielding one, somehow, managed to sit upright. The man with the tool let out a wheezing laugh and raised the wrench above his head.
The first officer reached them, and as he held out his hands to help, the man with the wrench swung at him. The cop staggered back, surprised. The second policeman paused, drew his Taser and ordered the man to drop the wrench.
Unbelievably, the man attempted to get to his feet, still holding the wrench. The officer fired the Taser, the prongs striking the man in the chest. The result was instantaneous, and Mitchell watched as the man collapsed, his body quivering from the current racing through him.
All of it happened within a matter of seconds, and Mitchell came to a stop a few feet away. Shards of broken glass and pieces of the window frame lay scattered around the grass. One of the officers was speaking into his radio. Others arrived, several wearing gray jackets with “Medical Examiner’s Office” stenciled in white on the backs. In the distance, the faint wail of an ambulance made itself known.
Mitchell looked down at the man who had held the pipe wrench. His shirt had “Hanson’s Plumbing” embroidered on the right breast, while on the left was the name “Chris.”
Chris’s eyes were open and spittle had gathered at the corners of his mouth. He blinked several times, nodded slightly to himself and chuckled.
Chris’s mouth formed a single word. A name.
Mitchell.
Mitchell leaned forward. Chris’ breath came out in ragged gasps, but he managed to say, “He wants to know.”
The cops, hearing the man speak, came over and looked from Chris to Mitchell.
With a dry throat, Mitchell asked, “What?”
Chris smiled, his teeth broken, blood smeared across the white enamel. “What you think of his school.”
“Who?” Mitchell said, painfully aware of the fear in his words.
“Mr. Weiss,” Chris whispered, his breath rattling in his lungs. “Do you like his school?”
Before Mitchell could answer, Chris’s pulled back into a sneer as he shuddered once, and died. Mitchell saw Chris’s eyes glaze over, his last breath whistling out between his mashed lips.
A faint glow caught Mitchell’s attention and he looked at the shadow of an elm tree. For the briefest space of time, he thought he saw an old man glowing, but then the image was gone. Nothing in the shadow but the trunk of the tree.
One of the officers looked over at Mitchell and asked, “Sir, are you okay?”
“I don’t know,” Mitchell answered, took a step to the right, and began to fall. By some miracle, the policeman caught him, held onto him, and led him back to the bench. An ambulance arrived a minute later, and the officer had the paramedics look at Mitchell for shock. Mitchell didn’t know if he was in shock or not. He didn’t even know if anyone was speaking to him. His eyes were fixed on Chris, the plumber.
Mr. Weiss, Mitchell repeated to himself. Mr. Weiss.
“Mitchell,” one of the paramedics said.
“Yes?” Mitchell asked sleepily.
“Do you need me to call someone for you?” the paramedic asked.
“Um,” Mitchell said. Then he smiled. “Yes. Yes, please.”
“Who?”
“My wife,” Mitchell replied. “Call my wife for me, please. I think I’m going to need a ride home today.”
Chapter 11: His Dreams
Herman had a rolled towel that was stuffed into the gap between the floor and his bedroom door, as well as a blanket tacked up over it. It didn’t completely cut out the sound of the television, or his parents’ drunken arguments, but it helped. He couldn’t sleep with earbuds in, even though he had tried plenty of times. So he kept the door blocked and the window open, hoping for the best.
More often than not, his parents usually passed out by midnight. Herman still had a hard time getting ready for school in the morning, since he was constantly tired, but he was making the best of a bad situation.
The good thing was he didn’t have nightmares or even dreams he could remember.
All of that changed on the night of his lost hour in the library.
His parents had been up later than usual. Almost until one. They were fighting about who owned the Shirley Jackson books. Herman didn’t care who actually owned them, he wanted some quiet so he could sleep. Eventually, he drifted off and started to dream.
He was in Mrs. Alcott’s office. The book was on the desk, and
the clock was blank. He turned around, confused, wondering why he was back. When he faced the door, he came to a stop, staring at a man who stood there.
He was an old man, and exceptionally tall; his hair brushing the lintel of the doorframe. The old man’s beard was long, well past the center of his chest, and was white with streaks of black hair running through it. When the man smiled, he revealed yellowed teeth, some straight and others crooked, all with gaps between them. His eyes were a brilliant blue, the color of the sky on a clear winter morning. The man’s forehead was heavily lined, as though he had thought and worried about a great deal. He was a lean man, too, his black suit accentuating the angles of his body. He radiated confidence and calm.
“What are you reading, young man?” the old man asked. His voice was melodic, powerful.
Herman enjoyed the sound of the man, the rhythm of his speech. “An autobiography, sir.”
Herman didn’t usually say ‘sir,’ but it felt right to do so. Proper.
“Is it good?” the old man asked confidentially.
Herman smiled, unsure why. “Yes, sir.”
“Will you read all of it? Every last word?” the old man asked softly.
Herman nodded his head vigorously.
“Excellent. What’s your name, young man?”
“Herman, sir,” he said. And then he added, “Herman Emerson Hawthorne.”
“A good name. Mine is Nathaniel Weiss.”
Mr. Weiss offered his hand, and Herman shook it. He remembered how Mr. Licata had taught him how to shake hands properly. Firmly, without too much strength, or too little.
No one wants a broken hand, Mr. Licata had said, smiling, or to touch a limp fish.
“Now, Mr. Hawthorne,” Mr. Weiss said, looking around the room. “Will you tell me exactly the day and the year?”